


space, in the black

by sevdrag (seventhe)



Series: Sev's Commission Run 2019 [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Firefly Fusion, Alternate Universe - Firefly Setting, Bucky don't use proper grammar, Ensemble Cast, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 05:51:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18440339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhe/pseuds/sevdrag
Summary: When you're livin' on a ship full up with crew, sometimes you gotta keep things to yourself, give yourself a little bit of space in the black to hold what's private an' pure. Then, other times, you just gotta say,fuck it.[MCU/Firefly mashup.] NOW WITH THE PORN!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aimline](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aimline/gifts).



> WELL CONGRATULATIONS @elynehil, this commission finally let me build up my MCU/Firefly universe, and this piece has actually launched another 4-5K words within that 'verse, but as requested here's a bit of the crew and a whole lot of Winterhawk.

“It’ll be an easy mission, Buck,” Bucky mutters under his breath in what he feels is a really good imitation of Steve’s usual placating tone. “We won’t even need you, Buck.” He racks a shell into his rifle and presses his eye to the scope, narrowing in on the man who’s currently trying to shoot Cap and the crew. This isn’t even a hard shot; Bucky pulls, and the man falls onto the ground, allowing Cap to reach the outcropping of rock that Romanoff and Barton are hiding behind.

“They’ll just take the money and go,” Bucky murmurs, and it’s a shame he’s alone up in these hills ‘cause his impression really is dead-on.

Luckily their crew is way more talented than these dusters, and soon Romanoff’s got them face-down on the ground with Barton covering from on top of the rocks. Cap’s dusting his hands off, saying something Bucky supposes is his usual disappointed lecture, and Bucky takes that as his signal to hoof it down to the mule.

He gets within range just in time to hear Stevie say, “Now, we’ll leave you with the goods, but we’re takin’ proper payment, just as was promised.”

“Cap,” Bucky drawls as he stalks onto the scene. He knows how he looks: he looks like the Hydra Alliance assassin he was, like the merc for hire he used to be, and he loves playin’ bad boy to Cap’s good soldier. “I think we’re owed a little more than proper payment, here. Looks like we got damages to charge for.”

The three men on the ground look suitably cowed, and Bucky gives them his most charming grin. One of them must actually recognize the Winter Soldier, then, because the guy’s face turns all white and he elbows the fucker next to him. 

“Buck,” says Cap, and it’s only a bit disappointed, which means Bucky can keep playin’ along. Cap must be rightly hurt by these three turning on the crew. 

“He’s right.” Romanoff walks over to stand next to him, and Bucky gives her a quick nod. “Done and damaged my composure, and you know how much I hate that.”

“Plus I’m the one who actually got _shot,_ ” Barton calls from his position atop the rock, and Bucky’s chest clenches in sudden worry and anger.

“He’s alright,” Romanoff murmurs. “Barely a scratch.”

“Drama queen,” Bucky mutters back to her, but his heart’s going a little faster now, and that means he’s a lot more likely to pop a bullet in somebody’s skull.

“Can we sit up?” One of the men has his head lifted, arms in the air, the question plaintive. “I think we might have somethin’ that’ll help y’all forget this little incident.”

“Mind’s done full o’ holes anyway,” Bucky says cheerfully, and Cap gives him that little frown he always does, but Barton snorts away a laugh.

“Let’s see how generous you are.” Romanoff sways her way over to stand beside Cap, now, and the fools are even less likely to recognize the actual Black Widow but Bucky can see they sure recognize the danger in her.

The men sit up, slowly, keeping their arms in the air as much as they can, and do a sort of huddle during which Bucky picks up on a lot of cussin’, mutterin’, and the shuffle and clank of fabric an’ coin. His gun never wavers, but Bucky chances a moment to glance up at Barton, who’s still as earth with that ridiculous bow drawn, his face set in concentration. There’s a bit of blood high on his arm, and Bucky figures that must be where the idiot got shot. Seems like a graze, then, and his chest loosens at the sight.

“Okay,” says the man who appears to be the leader, holding out a wallet bursting with coin. “Here’s payment as promised, alright, it’s legit.”

“Natasha?” Cap’s voice is even, and his stare is leveled on these fuckers steady and same as Bucky’s gun. Romanoff steps forward to take the wallet, then opens it up and sifts through the notes and coins. Her estimation skills are pretty good, which is favorable cause Bucky doesn’t want to stand here while she counts up every Alliance cent. Eventually, she nods at Cap.

“An’ it looks like we got 15%, on top, as an ...apology for our … hasty actions.” The guy tosses Romanoff what looks like a belt-purse; it jingles as she catches it. She gives it the same perusal and nods at Cap a second time.

“Now, I don’t wanna hear about any more ‘hasty actions’ of yours,” Steve begins, and Bucky has to fight back his groan. Cap’s always lecturin’ folk, and it’s good of him to want to do good business, but Bucky figures he could send a stronger message real quick by shootin’ out somebody’s kneecap. Just one. He’s not a _total_ monster.

The guys on the ground are nodding like the idiots they are, and Bucky considers blowing out an elbow on principle, but that won’t help sweeten the deal at all. At this point, he just wants to get the mule back in the ship and go on up into the safety of the black, where the only folk on their ship are, well, them.

“You ever want to do business in these parts again, you’ll do it smart,” Steve finishes, and takes a couple steps back, immediately less threatening. “Now go on, vanish.”

Bucky doesn’t move his arm or his gun until the three morons are back on their own transport and moving - what looks like hasty fast - back towards where they came from.

“Can I come get a bandage now?” Barton whines from the top of the rock. “Seriously, blood everywhere, it’s not my color.”

“Nothing’s your color,” Romanoff shoots back, but she holsters her own piece and goes to, ostensibly, help Barton down. 

“Purple disagrees with you.” Barton’s voice is strong, not a single waver, and Bucky figures that he’s mainly been playing it up for their previous audience. He hides his own sigh of relief by checking his pistol, then holstering it on his left. He adjusts the sniper rifle on his back, and turns to Cap with a grin.

“Had to give them the speech, huh.” He and Cap have only been this easy for a few weeks, really; Bucky had trouble remembering their days together after the Hydra Alliance tried to remake his brain, but having spent months on Cap’s ship seems to be loosening those recollections. Cap’s always dope pleased, turning away to hide a grin and rub the back of his neck, which he does now.

“Ready,” Romanoff calls, and Cap manages to dodge all of Bucky’s carefully-prepared humor by ducking onto the mule and settling in. Barton’s still driving; there’s an off-white wrap round his upper arm, tight enough to stave off the bleeding, and Barton’s still the best pilot out of all of ‘em — although Romanoff looks steamed, as if Barton refused to let her drive.

———

Back on _Serenity,_ the team scatters off to their various jobs. Cap and Romanoff head to the lounge, where they’ll carefully count up and then divvy their earnings from the day. Doc Banner comes down to look at Barton’s shoulder, and Bucky carefully stays beside the mule. He’s perfected this, at this point, hovering while glowering and lookin’ like he’s just here to take careful care of his equipment. The Maximoffs drop in, momentarily, but then Doc Banner gathers them up and moves them out, with some kind of extra sensitivity. Soon, it’s just Bucky and Barton, who’s working over the mule, cause she hasn’t done mileage like that in a long time, and there’s a good chance Stark’s gonna have to come replace her transmission.

Barton pauses, and looks up. Bucky wouldn’t ever admit that he’s been watchin’ out of the corner of his eye, but he has been, and it’s only a couple seconds before he’s backed Barton into the dark corner of the dock, beneath the stairs, where they’ll hear warning if anyone comes back.

“Bucky,” Barton breathes against him, and Bucky grabs him by the hair and brings him down into a blazing, bruising kiss, more mauling his mouth than kissin’, really, forcing his tongue into Barton’s mouth with force. Barton, for his part, sighs happily and slumps down onto Bucky’s lips, opening willingly and letting Bucky take what he needs.

They break apart, and Bucky sighs, tipping his forehead in to lean against Barton’s.

“Clint, you fucker,” he murmurs. “Thought you really got hurt, you arsehole.”

Clint tips a shrug, unwilling to move any part of his body too far from Bucky’s. “Had to play it up,” he breathes, against Bucky’s mouth. “But hells, Buck, your shootin’. Had to stop myself from crowin’ every shot you made. God, you’re beautiful behind a rifle.”

“Couldn’t hardly see me,” Bucky retorts, but he tips his face up again and this time Clint cups Bucky’s face in his hands and dives in deep: Clint likes to angle Bucky’s lips exactly where he wants them and then simply plunder, and Bucky can’t help the hot thrill that runs up his back every single time Clint’s tryin’ to devour him with his mouth.

They’ve only been doin’ this for a couple weeks, now, the culmination of weeks of stupid ass flirting and a kind of longing Bucky don’t want to admit to now, and so far they’ve been alright not lettin’ anybody know, cause Bucky’s headspace has got issues. But Bucky’s all kinds of impatient to let Clint know it ain’t cause of him, and of course he bites at Clint’s lip cause he thinks that’ll somehow get that point across without drowning in all them feelings.

One of his hands is still in Clint’s hair, and the other has tucked under Clint’s shirt to press his palm against Clint’s fuckin’ hard abs. Clint’s got an hand on his face and a hand on his ass, and Bucky can’t help steppin’ in further, even if they’re already almost close as possible. He wedges his thigh between Clint’s and can’t help his groan as he feels Clint’s heat, half-hard up against him already, here in the shadows of the staircase.

“Fuck,” Clint murmurs against his mouth. “Buck, shit, I’m gonna end up with my hands in your trousers real soon if you don’t slow down.”

And that — that gives Bucky pause, which he hates, and he knows Clint feels the pause that runs through his entire body cause Clint slowly and carefully loosens his grip to be less desperate and more casual, and he fuckin’ hates that too, that Clint don’t really understand what’s in his head. 

“Clint, honey, hold up,” Bucky murmurs, and he leans up to suck at Clint’s jawline, to mouth against his throat and bite a mark down near his collarbone.

“Buck,” Clint says, and his voice is halfway somewhere, although Bucky’s not sure where.

Bucky makes himself pull back and look Clint right in the eyes. _Gorram,_ but this man’s fuckin’ gorgeous, his eyes all mixed up ‘tween green and blue, his square jaw and thick lips just begging to be tasted. Clint’s like a full-grown wet dream come to life, and Bucky wants to claim him as his own, it’s just—

“Hey,” Clint says, and his voice’s kind now, the way Clint talks to him when Bucky gets some kinds flashback to the labs, when Bucky gets froze up somewhere without realizing. Clint thinks that’s what this is, and Bucky’s suddenly raring to explain it, when he’s never wanted to put words to this thing before.

“Clint,” he breathes, and those ocean-like eyes focus on his, and Bucky swallows but continues.

“Honey, I’m near ready to fuckin’ take you in front of this entire crew, to let them all know you’re mine,” Bucky starts, and he watches as the darks of Clint’s eyes grow, expanding so fast Bucky can’t help but groan and bend upwards to take Clint’s mouth again, licking against his tongue and teeth until Clint melts somewhat.

“I just,” Bucky begins, and the words are starting to get clumsy in his mouth, caught in his throat. It ain’t related to the Hydra Alliance neither - he’s over their shit - but it’s just…

“Look, soon as Cap knows he’s never gonna give me a moment’s rest,” Bucky admits finally, cause it’s true that he and Stevie go back to that kind of relationship even if he don’t remember much of it, and it’s true that Stevie’ll make those kinds of jokes in an effort to rebuild that relationship with Bucky now, and Bucky’s not sure he wants anyone’s scrutiny on this thing he’s building with Clint: fragile, made of glass, but with what’s increasingly seeming like a foundation of solid stone.

“Buck,” Clint says, and they’re still close enough that he can almost feel Clint’s mouth moving against his with the words. “Look, I’m not mad, I’m just. I don't care what they think.”

“It isn’t,” Bucky starts, and then he tucks both hands under Clint’s t-shirt and runs them up the skin of his back. “I don’t give a single fuck what anyone on this gorram boat thinks. It’s more that…”

He isn’t sure how to explain it, so he just says the first words that come to mind and hopes they stick. “Let me have somethin’ that’s my own before I have to share it with the rest of the world, yeah?”

And only cause he’s lookin’ directly into Clint’s eyes does he see that understanding - that surprising understanding, for a guy who mostly piloted a ship, but Clint had always somehow gotten Bucky’s need to declare and protect and have things to himself with his own name on ‘em - and Bucky leans forward, hiding the relief in his face into the space where Clint’s neck meets his shoulder. 

“Buck,” Clint breathes, and wraps his arms tight around Bucky, and they stand there in the shadows for a few long minutes.

“Just a space,” Bucky insists. “Just a space of time until I can catch my breath, and then we can get caught naked for all I care.”

Clint laughs. A hand moves up to cup Bucky’s jaw, soft but amazingly firm, a constant Bucky can count time against.

“Shit, Buck,” Clint murmurs. “You know I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

———

It’s a week or so later when Bucky finds himself storming up onto the bridge, his face locked into what Banner calls his _murder glare_ and his fists clenched.

Cap’s bent over Barton’s station, spitfiring questions that Barton’s answering with his usual combination of defensiveness and unholy glee, his jaw absolutely set. Romanoff’s at the other station, flicking through the settings, and murmuring at Lady Carter, who has emerged from her shuttle in incandescent angry curiosity.

Romanoff has Stark on comm from the engine room, and it sounds like she’s talking him through the physics of the last maneuver. Stark’s responses are at least 75% cussin’, but Bucky has to admit that Stark knows his shit, no matter how abrasive that fucker can be. He pulls in a deep breath and then swallows it, trying to settle this fluttery feeling down in his stomach where he can ignore it until it goes away.

“Stevie,” he barks out. The whole room shuts the hell up, and he ain’t even that surprised to have most of the eyes drawn up on himself, anyway.

“Can I help you, Bucky?” Cap’s eyes are narrowed, and he’s tryin’ to look — stern, secure, solid, except that Bucky’s learning to see when Cap’s really just curious.

“Got a couple of questions for our pilot,” Bucky says, trying to keep his voice even and low, trying to channel _murder face_ even as Clint turns in the chair towards him, grin wide and low on his mouth like an invitation.

“Not the only one, Barnes.” Romanoff’s low murmur beside him is a surprise, actually; from what Bucky knows, Romanoff brought Barton in on this ship, offering Cap an incredibly talented pilot who’d been turned down one too many times for bein’ hard of hearing, which is a gorram crime in Bucky’s book. Romanoff always has Barton’s back; this stunt must’ve really thrown her.

Clint throws an arm over the back of the chair, his entire body language slouched, casual, and Bucky wants nothing more than to step into Clint’s spread thighs and suck that smile right off his face.

“So,” Bucky begins, “You took us right into a fading asteroid field.”

“They’d be crazy to follow us,” Clint quips, in that way that makes Bucky think Clint’s quoting something he doesn’t know.

“And then you tucked us right in against one of them rocks and turned the power off so we just looked like another piece of gorram granite.” It isn’t a question as it leaves Bucky’s mouth.

To his surprise, Clint’s finally picking up what he’s putting down, and he sees the dark warmth growing in Clint’s watercolor eyes as he shifts his stance in that chair, still confident as hell and so fucking hot with it. Clint’s tongue flicks out to wet his upper lip in a deliberate move Bucky knows the entire crew sees before Clint drawls, slow, “I sure did, Barnes. And?”

Bucky takes a couple steps forward, and pauses right at the edge of Clint’s station. Those fucking dinosaurs are still posed atop the console, and he still has the stupid post-it giving directions in a dead language, and these are all just fucking distractions to what Bucky has, finally, come here to say.

“That’s fuckin’ good piloting,” Bucky manages to get out, his heart in his throat and his voice choked up with something bizarre, and fortunately Clint stands up from his station chair and pulled him forward into a blazing kiss: public, and hot, and Clint’s tongue licking down into his mouth while Bucky’s really only trying to stand like he’s been waiting for this.

There’s a moment, and then Stevie says, “What the gorram hell?”

Bucky ignores it: ignores everything while he pulls Clint down again into something brutal, something completely inappropriate for the bridge: but Bucky doesn’t give a single shit, not at this point while he’s watched Cap and Romanoff and Peggy orbit each other at arm’s length, wanting but hesitant. Bucky’s fuckin’ done with being hesitant. All that time he spent wanting to keep Clint private, special, like his own, and it’s only now - in front of everyone, his fingers fisting in Clint’s hair and Clint’s broad hands clutching against Bucky’s waist - that Bucky realizes that it’s only partially about what everyone else sees and knows, and it’s mostly about what he and Clint can share, in that small seminal space between their lips, between their fingers, between their hips.

“Captain?” Lady Peggy enunciates, her diction perfect and particular, and Clint snorts in laughter against Bucky’s mouth, which only encourages Bucky to kiss him with even more filth, tongues warring and both of them groaning until they break apart. 

“Buck,” Cap ventures, more unsure than Cap usually is and Bucky’s gonna take full advantage here, having held himself back way too long.

“Cap’n,” he says finally, giving Stevie a brief nod. “Crew.” He executes a careful, extended, extravagant nod towards the Romanoff-Carter cluster on the other side of the room.

“Buck?” Stevie asks, _again,_ and it’s only when he says the word that Bucky knows he has the upper hand, that he’s gonna win out on this one.

“Look,” Bucky grunts, and he walks into the walkway space, pulling Clint behind him; to be honest, though, Clint is eager to follow, offering no resistance, simply smiling out at the crew members, all of whom look boggled— except Carter, of course, with that Companion smile on her lips like she’s figured them out already.

Bucky shrugs, and looks at all of them, pretending to be apologetic when he’s really just satisfied. “Sorry, Cap, but I need this man to take my clothes off,” he announces, and starts to trek backwards, pulling Clint by the wrists, a give-and-take dance that Clint’s all too happy to work with, considering the broad grin on his face. 

“Ya’ll need us,” Bucky says, and he finally lets himself grin too, “we’ll be in my bunk.”


	2. in retrospect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooooo the last chapter led to porn, and then @kangofu_cb beta-ed the porn, and here's the porn for all of you. this is mostly the fault of the Bad Decisions Bingo discord!

Weakly, Stevie asks, “Tasha?” Romanoff startles from where she’s been watching the two of them retreat, surprised, but she leans in to Cap and starts saying something. Bucky has to hope it’s something complimentary and gracious, but to be real about it, his mind’s on better things at the moment. 

Eventually he’s pulled Clint far enough down the hallway that he can tug the other man down, helping Clint handle the ladder and shutting the heavy door behind him, and there’s this heady feeling to having Clint in his own quarters for the first time that’s completely undoing Bucky, a rising warmth he isn’t sure he can fight.

His hands end up tossing Clint forward, onto his bunk, and Bucky winces for a second until that smile spreads across Clint’s face, sexy and slow. 

“Well,” Clint begins, and that’s not a smile, it’s a fuckin’ _smirk,_ expanding across his stubbled face with something that feels all too close to joy. Bucky climbs onto the bunk himself, clumsy, nothin’ else on his mind but peeling Clint out of them clothes and finally seein’ what’s underneath. He’s half-buzzing himself, all urgency and need.

“Fucker,” Bucky murmurs, his lips already at the curve of Clint’s throat, overly eager to uncover surface area he hasn’t seen yet. “Off, off, you heathen,” and he tugs Clint’s worn purple shirt upwards until Clint laughs, sits himself up easily, and grabs behind his neck to pull it off entirely.

“God gorram _wept,_ ” Bucky says completely involuntarily. Clint’s chest is broad, his shoulders are chiseled, and Bucky could spend an entire afternoon doin’ nothing but tasting them abs. Both of his hands are on Clint’s skin ‘fore he knows what he’s doing, and he flinches a bit, pulling the metal one back.

“I can,” he starts, but Clint laughs - his full laugh, his real laugh, and Bucky doesn’t give two goddamns if anyone can hear - and grabs the metal hand, bringing it up to his face. He kisses the palm, which isn’t sexy at all except for the way he keeps them ocean-colored eyes on Bucky as he does it.

“Nope,” Clint says clearly, “not an option. I wanna feel both hands all over me, Buck.”

It _looses_ somethin’ in Bucky that surprises him. He knows the crew’s too polite to really comment much on an implant gone wrong - or right, if you’re the Alliance - but that’s different from Clint’s gaze, hot as hell through his eyelashes, as Bucky gets the metal hand on Clint’s shoulder and runs it lightly, teasingly, down Clint’s arm.

“Fuck,” Clint breathes. He reaches out for the hem of Bucky’s tee, tugging it upwards, and Bucky lets him do it. “Fuckin’ hell, Buck, lemme feel you, c‘mere—”

Clint tugs him down until Bucky is sprawled on top of him, and then Clint’s mouth is on his and Bucky loses a few minutes just kissing Clint. It’s intense, but there’s no more panic in it — they don’t have to worry about getting caught, they don’t have to worry about someone comin’ by, they’re here in his bunk an’ the whole crew knows exactly what they’re up to— Bucky snorts, and pulls back for a second.

Clint’s face is fuckin’ _beautiful._ His lips are red, swollen, and his hair messed; he’s flushed and breathing hard and all Bucky wants to do is take him apart and put him back together. He’s grinning, hells, and Bucky’s hips make an involuntary motion against Clint’s and he watches Clint’s eyes flutter closed as he helplessly thrusts back. There may not be the usual panic, but Bucky’s suddenly desperate to see Clint, to feel him, to have him.

“Hells, Clint,” Bucky murmurs, dipping his mouth back down to Clint’s neck, and then his collarbone, allowing his hips to move jerkily against Clint’s. He’s pretty sure if he starts goin’ hard it’s gonna be over before either one of them wants. The expanse of Clint’s skin, up against his, is heady and perfect. He dips to Clint’s mouth, again, unable to stop himself from breathing in the small gasps Clint’s making, swallowing them against Clint’s tongue.

Clint makes this mighty groaning noise and then wraps his limbs around Bucky an’ _rolls,_ so he’s on top now, and Clint has no reservations, immediately grinding himself down on Bucky. He can feel Clint’s dick hard on his thigh and he wants to see it, wants to see Clint in his altogether. Bucky’s hands slip themselves into the small gap of his trousers, his hands palming Clint’s ass. 

They spend an endless time there, just working against each other, hands in hair and down pants and across stomachs, until Clint’s nearly whining and Bucky can’t take it no more.

“Clint, I want,” he manages to get out, and it’s already half a groan but he moves both hands into Clint’s belt loops and tugs, meaningfully. 

“Yes,” Clint murmurs, “god, yes, Buck, I need…”

They stop, panting into each other’s mouths, and Bucky hasn’t felt this compromised since his days with the Alliance, and he doesn’t fuckin’ care.

They scramble at each other, his fingers trying to unto Clint’s belt buckle while Clint pops open the button of his cargos and drags his fly down, hard, and Bucky can’t concentrate when Clint slips his hand into Bucky’s pants, his palm rubbing at Bucky’s cock artlessly through his unders. Bucky makes a noise he ain’t ever thought he’d make and pushes against Clint’s hand, frantic and sloppy.

He finally undoes Clint’s belt, and he goes for the fastening underneath, but it’s some weird kind of mission gear - that’s right, Clint wears his uniform most days when he hasn’t done the fuckin’ laundry - and he gets two seconds into it before he takes his metal arm and fuckin’ _rips_ them open.

Clint starts laughing, uncontrollably, hitching his hand against Bucky’s dick as he does, and Bucky just cusses real loud and grabs Clint’s trousers to get them off.

Clint isn’t wearing fuckin’ underwear.

Bucky shifts so that he’s above Clint, and his hands continue removing Clint’s ruined pants, but his eyes are stuck on Clint’s cock. It’s hard and straining, a dark blooming red at the tip, and he can’t fuckin’ believe he’s gone this long without havin’ that cock, without knowing its size and taste and feel. He has to bend down to lick at it, _has_ to, as hard and unforgiving as a Hydra command, and Clint’s laughter chokes in his throat as he moans, wanton and unbelievably wanting.

“You,” Clint breathes, and then tugs Bucky up his body - Clint’s surprisingly strong, although now that Bucky’s getting to know Clint’s biceps, he sees why - and gets his own hands into Bucky’s trousers, shoving them down. Bucky moans as his dick springs free, and Clint wrestles the pants off of his ankles and then is back on him in a hot second.

Bucky can’t even process all of this: Clint’s skin against his is already too much, and Clint’s over him, penning him in, hands tangled in Bucky’s hair, his mouth demanding and hot. Usually Bucky doesn’t like to feel trapped, but he realizes he’s wrapped his legs up around Clint’s hips, and it doesn’t feel like confinement at all: it’s slick, it’s hot, it’s the safety of finally getting to taste Clint’s skin. 

Clint’s weight bears down on him. Bucky tilts his hips, angling until his cock is up against Clint’s, and _fuck_ that rushes through him like a fuckin’ electrocution, leaving him shivering in his spine and making a noise that’s closer to desperate pleading than he knows how to be.

Clint tilts his chin with one hand, his eyes boring into Bucky’s — his evergreen eyes, pupils blown, his expression both desperate and undeniably fond. They’re growing slick between each other, between the sweat and the intensity, the leaking precome, and Bucky tightens his heels into Clint’s back and feels his eyes shutter.

It isn’t surprising when a few moments - a week, a decade - later, he feels Clint stiffen. Bucky’s eyes fly open in time to catch Clint’s face, eyes clenched shut and his mouth open, breathing hard, a long slow groan that collapses into Bucky’s neck as Clint comes, frantic and sloppy. The sound, the feeling, the slick of it is too much and Bucky thrusts haplessly against Clint’s hip twice, three times, until he comes against Clint’s skin with something a little too close to a howl.

Clint collapses down into him and Bucky tightens his arms and legs around Clint and they lie there, Clint’s body a reassuring weight, the rhythm of Clint hauling in breath, the pounding of Bucky’s own heart. Clint’s head sags into the joint between Bucky’s neck and shoulder and Bucky holds him harder, even harder, a hand skimming up to cup the back of Clint’s head. He’s suddenly full of a tenderness so fierce he doesn’t even recognize it: it’s hot, and hard, and angry, the way there’s this soft spot in his heart that’s already full up with Barton.

Clint twitches, but doesn’t seem to want to move. “‘M I squishin’ you?” Clint murmurs, more a messy drawl than anything. 

“No.” Bucky squeezes Clint for a moment longer, harder, wanting to pull Clint down underneath his own skin where he’ll be safe, where he’ll be there.

“Fuck,” Clint says, and starts to laugh, finally pushing himself up on them beautiful arms and looking down at Bucky. “Shoulda known we were too desperate for anything fancy.”

Bucky grins up at him, wild, unhinged. “We got plenty of time for fancy,” he offers, giving Clint his best smirk and making sure to flutter his lashes just a bit.

“Yeah?” Clint’s face starts lighting up, the way it does when Bucky tells him somethin’ true, somethin’ meaningful. “We gonna start making time now, Buck?”

Bucky’s hands run slowly up Clint’s belly, cup his face, and stop in his hair. “I want you here every night, Barton,” he says, and his voice is darker with the want in it than he’d like.

“Right,” Clint breathes, and that smile’s like a sun up in the dark. “Right.”

**Author's Note:**

> seriously tho fuck my life this actual universe/story is gonna be huge _I blame wine!Michelle somehow_


End file.
